


Disagree to Agree

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Disagreements, First Kiss, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18033029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Sidney can't believe Geordie's arrested that man from the toilets.





	1. Chapter 1

Sidney strode into the office with a face like thunder. All of a sudden, Geordie understood the phrase ‘the wrath of God’, because it honestly looked like Sidney would start calling in favours for lightning strikes any minute. He leaned back in his chair. Every copper knows how to project certain states of mind; he made sure every limb suggested ‘unconcerned’.

“What. Was that?”

To the point, fair enough. “You know what it was.” He picked up one of the files on his desk – a case assigned to Atkins and closed three days ago, but Sidney didn’t know that – and flicked through.

“Those men had done _nothing_ wrong.” His words are punctuated with a jabbing hand, and he still hasn’t sat down. Geordie will get a crick in his neck at this rate, damn tall people. He shoves the visitor chair with one foot, but Sidney ignores it.

“It would have been obvious to a gaggle of nuns what those two were there for, Sidney, if they’re stupid enough to try it in front of-“

“But they didn’t do anything! They walked into a toilet. And last I checked there was no crime there.”

Geordie slapped the file back on the desk, leaning forward on his elbows. “Last I checked, I was the crime expert around here. You’re here on _my_ say-so.” Something in Sidney deflates, and Geordie can read the moment he decides to try a new track. He slumps into the proffered chair.

“You know what this means for him,” he says softly.

“I do,” he echoes, in the same tone.

“You don’t agree with it?”

Geordie is quiet for a moment, choosing his words. “I’m a policeman,” he settles on. “What I think doesn’t really matter.”

“You just uphold the law, you don’t question it?” There’s a bit of bite back in Sidney’s tone. “Maybe we can’t change what’s written in statute but you have the power to – to notice it happening or not!”

“Upholding the law is my job, Sidney.” He keeps his tone measured, calm. “You think I don’t want to make a call sometimes? Of course I do. But if I start doing that – what is there to stop me, hey? Why do I get to be judge, jury and damn executioner?!”

“They don’t deserve what we put on them.”

“Not according to your God, vicar.” He looks pointedly at the dog collar.

“Love thy neighbour.”

“I’m not sure he meant-“

“Last I checked, I was the God expert around here.”

Geordie sighs. “Touché.” He grabs the glasses from his right-hand drawer; if ever there was a conversation that should be had through the burn of a cheap whiskey it was this one. He sloshes a generous measure into each glass, smiles a little when Sidney, as usual, tips half of it back without pause.

“Can’t you just… lose the charge sheet?”

“Is this because you took us there? They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your hunch?”

“It’s not like it helped us solve the case, is it? I've just ruined that man’s life.”

“Not your fault.” He refills Sidney’s glass, tops his up.

“Please.”

“Sidney,” he swills the amber liquid around in his glass. He doesn’t like this any more than Sidney does – he can’t say he’s necessarily a fan of pansies, but in the same way he’s not a fan of liver – he’s not going to eat it, but if Mrs Weatherby next door wants to live off it, that’s her business. “They were right in front of you, me and Atkins. Three witnesses. I can’t ignore that.”

“They didn’t do anything. We didn’t _see_ anything.”

“Maybe it was 'nothing', but it was 'nothing' right in front of the police-“ Sidney grabs the bottle and fills his glass again. “All right?” Geordie ventures slowly. Three while still in the office is a bit unusual.

“You can’t ignore it, the knowledge, even if no acts are performed in front of you?” Now Sidney sounds like he choosing his words carefully, and Geordie can practically taste that he won't like where this is going. It sounds like Sidney is testing a _theory_. And the answer is technically yes, but it’s not quite true in practice. Hard to prove if there’s no one who saw it, after all – the way he gets around that curate is that its all just hearsay. It isn’t, but it is, because it has to be, because otherwise he’d have to do something about it. So, Geordie just makes sure he’s looking the other way whenever possible. “Yes.”

“I’m gay.”

Geordie scoffs. “Yeah right. If its not Amanda with you its Hildegarde.” If its not Hildegarde it's a grieving widow, he adds silently. Sidney's concern face is a better detector of not-so-grieving murder suspects than his own patented 'not cried yet' technique. Much as he hates to admit it.

“If it’s not Hildegarde its Timothy. So are you going to do something about me now?”

“I have far too much evidence to the contrary-“

“I’m telling you, Geordie.” There’s steel in his eyes that makes Geordie just a little unsure. “Timothy. In the war.”

“Oh, well the war-“ he blusters.

“Doesn’t count, is that it? Maybe I should tell you instead about David then, that was back at school-“

It could all be a lie, is the thing. He _knows_ Sidney likes women (all that bloody kerfuffle with Amanda), and it would be just like him to try and push buttons to get his way. Geordie has absolutely no reservations that Sidney would put himself on the line to try and save someone else – this is just a bit different to his usual jumping into a crime scene feet first. But he’s been a copper a long time, and he generally knows when someone’s lying to him. He’s looking for it. He’s just not seeing it now.

“I have too much _evidence_ to the _contrary_ -“

Sidney’s chair scrapes back as he stands, and they haven’t been raising their voices but that was loud, and Geordie suddenly realises they’re having this conversation (God, _this_ conversation!) in the middle of the bloody station. His office door is the only barrier keeping Sidney from being hauled off to the cells, de-frocked, imprisoned.

Hands grab his collar, and before he can re-direct his attention from the door there's a mouth on his. Its gone as quickly as it started. He blinks. A few times.

“I'm sorry.” Sidney utters the words but the intonation is all wrong; it comes across as a challenge.

“You don't sound sorry,” Geordie chastises, but he's well aware there's no heat, no anger in his tone.

“I shouldn't have done that without permission.” Geordie laughs. _Permission_. Yes, okay, consent is important, but like that's the issue here. Besides, it was only one step up from an acquaintance kiss from those people who think they're French – moved from the side of course, but just a press of lips, dry. He clears his throat, but before he's thought of what to say, Sidney interrupts. “Are you going to do something about me now?”

He's still standing, and he's tall all the time of course, but it's more towering right now than it usually feels. Geordie stares up at him, still sat at his desk, hands spread on the surface. One still rests on a pen. Of _course_ he isn't. He clears his throat again. “I'll lose the charge sheet.”

Sidney nods. “I'll, uh,” he rakes a hand through his hair. “Mrs M probably needs me.” And he's gone.

\-- 

There have been no new developments in the case, so its the next day when Geordie decides the best thing to do is ignore it all, and invites Sidney down to the pub. As promised, the charge sheet has been misplaced (in the lit grate of his living room fire), and the man released. He relays as much, minus the placement of the sheet, as he places two pints on the table. Sidney has the backgammon board already set up, and Geordie is grateful for something to do with his hands.

“It wasn't attraction,” Sidney says as Geordie takes the first long pull of his pint. He thinks he works out what Sidney means; due to the location they have to talk in a sort of code.

“It was proving a point?” he ventures.

“Right,” Sidney takes three long gulps of his drink, then moves a piece on the board. “You don't have to worry about-” he stops himself, seemingly unsure of an appropriate euphemism. Geordie lets him off his misery.

“You call that a move? I'll have this game in less time than it takes to finish this pint – and the next round's on you.” He glances up without raising his head, fiddles with one of the game pieces. Sidney is grinning, and it looks natural again.

“It's on you if I take the game,” he promises. Geordie's shoulders come down as tension he hadn't realised he was carrying seeps away. They're going to be all right. 


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks have passed, and Geordie is fairly certain Sidney has, if not forgotten the incident, tucked it away somewhere and moved on entirely. His behaviour is as normal as it ever was, which is to say entirely abnormal for a vicar. Gloria, he huffs internally. Of course Sidney could pull a bloody celebrity jazz singer.

It's not been so easy for him. He's not sure why. He knows a line should have been drawn under the whole thing, but he can't help watching Sidney. Every interaction, be it with the bartender at the pub, the other coppers, parishioners – but there's been nothing but charm and smiles for the ladies, earnest dog-collaring for the men. Scorn, for Atkins. If he didn't _know_ , he wouldn't know.

And at least once a day that – time – in the office runs through his head in technicolour. He's just not sure _why_. He loves Cathy, God does he love Cathy. And his kids. He's never so much as looked at another man before and he doesn't want to now. The only reason he's ever noticed a man's looks is because some don't know how bleeding lucky they are, or how far they get by on looks when they think its intelligence, or street smarts. He's always made a habit of taking those ones down a peg or two.

Until Sidney, he realises. Sidney is a bit like that. Oh, of course, he backs it up – he's clever, he's honest (to a degree), he really does care about people, even if he ends up screwing them about more often than he should as a man of the cloth. But at first meeting you don't know that, and they've both made use of the leeway his pretty face can get them. More than one witness has opened up faster to Sidney than they ever would to coppers in the station, and its not all down to the dog collar.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and suddenly realises – he's driven all the way over to the vicarage. He parks the car, turns off the engine and gets out, still running on automatic. There's no reason for him to be here, nothing except – that time – running round and round. The door opens while he's still stood at the gate.

“Geordie?” Sidney has one hand up, shielding his eyes from the sun. It's bloody warm out today. They're both just in shirtsleeves, and he's driven here with all the windows down. “Have we got a-”

“No,” he calls out, forcing himself to walk towards the door. “No case.”

Sidney steps back, and Geordie crosses the threshold. It's dim inside, and his eyes take a moment to adjust. “Mrs Maguire home?” He wonders if he sounds odd, but if he does, Sidney doesn't acknowledge it as he shuts the door behind them.

“She went out. Leonard's gone to the pictures with Daniel.” He can't help his reaction – eyes cutting across at the insinuation, landing squarely on Sidney's. His voice is soft as he asks, “is everything all right Geordie?”

There's the knowledge that they're the only ones home, the familiarity of the vicarage, Dickens' snores as he lies slumped under the table. It's only the curtains pulled to, across the baking sun, that turn the very air pink as it tries to stream through. It's Sidney stood near enough that he's not sure what is leftover sunlight and what's body heat, that makes him able to say anything at all. “I can't stop thinking about it,” he hisses, low, urgent. “It's all right for you-” he waves a hand up and down Sidney's body, “but I-.” He can't say it. He can't say what he hasn't even been able to admit to himself. That one brush of lips felt like a _start_ , not an end. That he doesn't know what he wants, but he wants _something_.

“I am sorry.” Sidney is so earnest, eyes big and brow furrowed. “I put this all on you, I should never have done any-”

“No!” He's still speaking in an undertone. “It's not that,” because of course Sidney thinks he's tied up in knots about having had a – a homosexual encounter. And maybe he is, but he's betting Sidney thinks the memory disgusts him, that what he wants is a bleeding apology. He pictures that kiss again; a second, maybe less, and feels familiar tingles. What would a proper snog do? He flushes, looking down at Sidney's shoes.

“Then what?”

Enough. He pulls himself together, straightening to his full height; they're not getting anywhere like this. He meets Sidney's eyes, and very carefully, with clear enunciation, says, “do it again.” 

There's a split second when Sidney looks shell-shocked, but Geordie snakes a hand up, curls it around one ear and into wheat-gold hair. It's softer than he thought; softer than his own, more like Cathy's-

He's done it. Sidney has allowed himself to be dragged down and those lips are on his again. He notices the warmth this time, through Sidney's lips but also through his shirt. They're standing close enough that fabric brushes fabric, even if they're not actually touching. Every nerve must be standing on end, or time has slowed to a trickle, honey in the warm sunlight, because he feels everything. Sidney has mirrored his own hold on hair, the other hand heavy on his shoulder. Geordie moves his spare hand to the small of Sidney's back, hesitating then landing firmly, stroking fingertips in minute circles over starched cotton. Sidney's mouth opens in surprise; he feels just a hint of wet before it's gone, Sidney pulled away. He's looking shell-shocked again. “I'm-”

“If you say you're sorry for that,” he's not sure how to finish the threat, but the start is enough to make Sidney relax with a sheepish smile. They're still attached, hand to head, to back, to shoulder, and his blood is fizzing. He feels it when Sidney breathes. “So. Not just proving a point?” he can't quite look up, and instead fixes his gaze where it naturally rests. The hollow of Sidney's throat, visible where he's wrenched open his top button. He must have been gardening. 

“It never was,” Sidney murmurs, and Geordie follows the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows, before looking up again. 

“Glad to hear it,” he's overly gruff, he realises, even as he can't quite stop the hand still tangled in Sidney's hair from slipping down and clapping him on the shoulder like pals at the cricket. He pulls away until they're separate. “Good,” he murmurs. He feels cold everywhere they were just joined.

“Tea?” Sidney asks.

He could do with a whiskey, but nods to the other beverage instead, following Sidney into the kitchen and watching him tussle with the tea tray. He's using their usual mugs – something in him settles at having a usual mug in this household – rather than the parishioner set, but fusses over a plate of biscuits like he'd never normally bother, usually offering Geordie one from the packet while holding his own in his mouth. He sets them up in the study, where a half-written sermon decorates the desk and Dickens snores on. 

The chairs are too far apart, Geordie thinks, taking one.

“I'd like to do that again,” Sidney says with a blush, pouring the tea and passing a mug to Geordie. His hair is standing up on one side, where Geordie must have messed with it more than he thought. He takes a gulp of too-hot liquid. There are a million reasons why this should be a one time (two time, his brain insists) thing. There's Cathy, front and centre. She's the love of his life, the mother of his children, he needs her like he needs both arms. There's the law, for another. And the church, for round three. But as his gaze sweeps down the man opposite, taking in rumpled shirt, and hands that won't stop turning his tea mug, nervous, he realises. Cathy might be his left arm, but somehow this man has become his right, and he needs him just as much. He needs afternoons in the pub, and someone he trusts at his back as he catches criminals. He needs quiet, secret meetings where he can taste Sidney's tongue, and peel back layers of vicar until there's nothing but the man underneath. He needs everything he can only imagine, now, and things he doesn't even know of yet. He swallows.

“Me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the word 'snog' first came about in the 1940s. I had to check if I could use it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Although the term 'bisexual' was apparently coined (in its current meaning) back in 1892 (thanks internet!) it doesn't look like it became common knowledge until the sixties? Given bi-erasure and the fact that so many people even today don't accept it, I'm assuming a 1950s vicar in a country parish, even one as off the rails as Sidney Chambers, could be unaware of the concept - hence why he calls himself gay. But please do correct me if you know differently! LGBT history isn't my specialist subject, unfortunately, which makes writing period stuff like this hard...


End file.
